Alas, the title of this entry doesn't refer to semen, as much as I'd like for it to be. Earlier this afternoon, I had a conversation with an ex-boyfriend and now trusted friend, Denny*. He understands me more than most people nowadays, though we haven't been together in several years. We keep in touch, and he is one of the few who saw me at my unwitting sluttiest before I actually decided to embrace my true nature and expose it.
"I think you use sex as a substitute," Denny posited. "If you were in a good relationship, you'd be happy and stable."
"Of course I would," I replied. "All I want is the perfect pervert. And I think my blog is the result of that desire. This is my search."
The truth is, I don't want to fuck the whole planet; it would probably be fun, albeit somewhat exhausting. I've been selective about my partners, yet you would probably not believe that based on the sheer volume of men plunging in and out of my pussy. I often joke that my mantra is "Fuck Now, Talk Later," as if to determine emotional and intellectual compatibility, we must first ascertain a sexual and physical fluency. After all, what would be the point in falling desperately and head over heels for someone with the greatest mind and heart but with all the sexual appeal of a bowl of cold oatmeal?
As Denny and I discussed our literally ass-backwards approach to dating and love, I remembered why I started this blog last summer. I have alluded to it in previous entries, but I wasn't ready at the time to really admit to myself or to anyone the impetus behind my new identity. But I am now.
When I was 18 and attending a local university, I met a fellow student, Max*, who introduced me to many new sexual experiences. The last time I saw him was the night he sucked his much older male friend's cock in front of me...until the summer of 2009. Suffering from a bout of insomnia, I Googled my name and was surprised to find a link on craigslist's "Missed Connections" section. It was expired (cruelly by a mere three days) but there was enough history on the site to see that the person who'd initially posted had referenced my high school nickname. It was the one I'd used on a senior year writing thesis project. I had lent that collection to Max only to have him disappear a few months later - he moved out of his East Village apartment and didn't leave a forwarding address. I was no longer enrolled at the same university and there was no way of finding him, as this was pre-internet and I couldn't simply search for him on Google. But for some reason, I didn't despair; I knew that someday, somehow, I would find him again.
I posted an ad of my own under the Missed Connections section, asking if someone had been searching for [name redacted], adding that I was waiting for the return of my book afer all these years. The next day, I received a response from him and we agreed to meet up for dinner at his place.
"I'm making shrimp stir fry," he said before suggesting I bring a bottle of wine.
"And flowers? Would you like those?" I replied.
"If you wish."
Anxious, I perused the selection of flowers at the local deli by his apartment building, settling on a bunch of daisies. When he opened the door, his eyes widened in pleasure and surprise: "You look exactly the same," he said. I pressed the flowers and wine into his hands and he smiled upon inspecting them. "Daisies," he intoned. "Such lovely flowers. They are the sort of flowers a little girl would pick." He smiled at me, his grin tucking up into the corner of his still boyishly handsome face.
Instinctively, my body quivered when I heard the words little girl. Max had always had this effect on me. I still remember, even now, nearly 18 years later, the way he revealed a long coil of rope in his bedroom as I laid in bed, idly observing him. With deft precision, he overpowered me with his long, lean body, pressing it up against mine, before lashing me in expert knots to the wooden frame of his loft bed. I couldn't move, forced to rest on my side in a near fetal position. He leaned close into my ear, whispered, "Good girl," and then slid his hand down my back. His leg was thrown casually over my hip, almost as if we were innocently spooning, only he jiggled his leg slowly and deliberately, causing my knees to rub together. The space between my thighs burned as I felt the sensations ride upward to where my pussy radiated heat. For over an hour he repeated these movements, occasionally leaving the room while I moaned in agony as my clit quivered and pulsed, needing attention. I closed my eyes, fixating on the sounds of him, focusing on his touch, the torturous sensation of being brought so close to orgasm by the simple friction without ever reaching its culmination.
He laughed. And then - nothing. He was gone, the ropes were suddenly slack, and I was free.
How I described my first experience with bondage is exactly how our reunion was. Enraptured, enthralled, I was bound to him for a period of time that was not long enough. Heady from the declarations of his pleasure at having "found [his] little girl" after all these years, I reveled in the comfort of his presence. He promised to love me, protect me, take care of me. It was as if the fifteen years of separation had never occurred. And then...the last night we spent together, upon our return from a weekend in the country, I knew he would be gone again. It was obvious in the way he got out of the car to hug me, as if he were releasing me from the stays he'd fastened to the mizzenmast. I was no longer his captured maiden. I was no longer his little girl.
I have been lost ever since.
*names have been changed to protect the privacy of others
